We have found a witch! May we burn her?

Edit: I’ve added a link to this post that was supposed to here, but was inadvertently omitted when I posted it.

I find it so completely mind-boggling that the simple private possession of words or images within an individual’s home is frequently enough justification to lock someone in a prison until they rot, to forcibly physically violate and permanently alter a person’s body, to severely restrict any and all forms of speech, and to subject them to a lifetime of constant, close surveillance — or even to kill them outright.

That’s to say nothing of the glee with which all and sundry gather to shame and mock and hurl every manner of bile and hatred when it is made known that so-and-so stands accused of having words or images deemed heretical and vile and of no possible value to any sane, rational, “normal” person. The near-immediate blow with which one such accused is left without employment, community, shelter, dignity. The cries for blood, the warnings to avoid evil ones like them, the insistence in scrutinizing an entire lifetime of complex, nuanced acts in order to find the malice and cunning and evil in every single thing a person has ever done.

I marvel at the apparent inability of so many people to reconcile “this person is claimed to be a word-and/or-image possessor!” with “I believed they had made positive contributions to society!” and to be unable to allow both facts to coexist — and to fall, nearly without fail, on the side of invalidating the latter because of the former.

I watch with wonder at the apparently intentional conflation of “having in one’s possession one or more words or images” with “has actively brought harm on one or more other individuals,” and the assumed implication that even if there is no evidence of harm, that a word-or-image-possessor is always so imminently poised to cause harm that they must unequivocally be prevented from carrying out this imagined harm for which there is no evidence beyond the accuser’s own projected discomfort with some particular words or other particular images.

Even where there is clear evidence that there has been measurable positive effect, that is inevitably spun into some form of harm; if a person possessing images or written words deemed by an arbitrary third party as indicative of witchcraft, or communism, or homosexuality, or belief in Islam, or dissatisfaction with a tyrant ruler, or of being a heretic — anything which is not the dominant narrative — makes the claim that there has been no wrongdoing, maintains that no harm has occurred, this is held up as an indication that they are damaged, broken, incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong, and they therefore deserve any punishment deemed fitting by those in power.

I’m reminded over the last few days that I have… I had… friends and loved ones who have, for any practical purpose, ceased to exist. There are some who were in my life and no longer are, because they were accused of privately looking at images or reading words, or perhaps had discreetly shared these alleged words or images with others who wished to see. I’m reminded that even those who are known and lauded for their positive contributions to any given community will be vilified, shamed, and cast out; they will have every possible aspect of their lives — no matter how personal or private — shouted from the hills so that it can be picked apart and weaponized with the aim of helping to further destroy their lives.

And I’m reminded again (though the thought is never far from my mind, believe me!) that there are many who know me who regularly call for me to suffer this same fate. Oh, mind you, they don’t know they’re talking about me; they’re simply joining in the spectacle of cheering with popcorn in their hands as other heretics are burned. If they knew the kind, caring person I am, I have no doubt that they would eagerly do the same to me. I have often said that there are many so-called friends who would love nothing more than to murder me for my thoughts if they knew them, and I think that most of these people have no idea how much they hate me.

I’ve been saying this for a very long time, in various ways, or at least dropping hints and leaving clues when- and wherever I’m able to do so. And fuck, it’s difficult to know that speaking loudly and directly is not a safe option. Here’s me doing what I can, again.

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Pain, and pleasure, and the church-bells softly chime.

My 36th birthday is coming up soon. Still stuck living with The Rabbit. Things are still just as crazy, overwhelming, and stressful as ever here. My birthday will mark 3 years of being stuck in this hellhole, after coming back from my disastrous trip to visit Lime. It’s nerve-wracking, the omnipresent sensory overload here.

Broke up with Moonbeam almost a year ago. Started writing a post about it… 6? 7? months ago, was really zoned in, in the middle of the night, doing some amazing writing, editing, only a few hours into the process (many of my medium-length posts are the result of half a day’s total effort) and was pulled out of all of that by The Rabbit‘s endless cough-gag-snort-hrkkkhrrrrk! in the next room as she started her day. I never was able to get back into working on the piece. The draft is still sitting there; I don’t remember when I even last opened it.

Things have been going well with my current therapist. The beginning of November marked a year of seeing her. It also marked 3 years since breaking up with MFP. Other than the very brief fling with the incredibly immature and naïve Moonbeam, and getting to spend time with Again once every few months, I haven’t really had anything going on in the relationships department. I’ve had plenty of the usual “oh hey, she’s totally into me!” which have predictably turned into “huh, I guess she’s cut me out of her life; would’ve been nice to let me know what happened.” And, as always, there are physically-distant people who would love to share my bed — and I theirs — if not for the fact that these would-be lovers are in different states, countries, or even hemispheres. Can’t go down on someone in a different time zone, or share a cozy dinner at a quiet table for two when there are twenty borders between us.

I’m supposed to be going in to take a bath, then try to make sure I get some food, and hopefully get some rest afterwards. If I’m lucky, the friend who said to check in with her to see if she’s free to hang out will indeed be free today; if not I’ll still see about leaving this place. Don’t know where I’ll go.

Line my eyes and call me pretty… please? (Or, “Maybe More Merry?”)

I got thinking about how surprising it was that several hours have gone by already since I posted before, and how all the crazy-making things about this place really wear me down. But then, I realized — and in fact, nearly commanded myself — I should get myself together, that sitting in wonder shouldn’t last forever.

In other words:

It’s astounding; time is fleeting.
Madness takes its toll.
But, listen closely:
Not for very much longer!
I’ve got to keep control!

Huh. Now for some reason I feel like drinking for a moment. Odd..

At any rate, it really is astounding, just how little it takes of having some time to myself in order to feel a fuckton better. Once she’s gone away, all it takes is a little light reading from an old favorite, an orgasm before that, and a little bit of happy music (or maybe the happy music happened because I was already feeling good? I mean, the suggestive dance performance I was putting on for an imagined partner or several while listening might be an indicator that things were going all right…) Took a bath, found a lovely, large bruise on my leg that I’ve apparently had for a couple of days (I can read the color/age of bruises pretty well, but I’m honestly much more out of practice than I’d like) but that I don’t remember getting. It’s got a nice big bump to it as well, the kind of lump I would expect to remember! Oh well.

I’m hungry. I ate a little bit of food yesterday evening, but that was all I had yesterday. I’m debating whether to try and put something together now, whether to just try and sleep a little bit (it’s less than 4 hours until Again is supposed to get here to pick me up and whisk me away from this misery to a much more delightful locale) or whether to caffeinate myself instead. Shit! As I type that, I realize that I filled up the drink cup at Jack In The Box last night with a couple different highly-caffeinated soda flavors. No fucking wonder I’m still wide awake.

Well! No more caffeine for now, then. Perhaps a mild sedative, then, and see if I can catch a bit of a nap.

Ferry Chrucking Mistmas.

Just a few more minutes until xmas starts here, and nothing is all that different from usual. The Rabbit is in the next room coughing, clearing her throat, hacking up snot from her throat, blowing her nose loudly and frequently. Likely at least another half-hour, maybe longer, before she’ll even begin trying to shut down her computer and start getting herself to bed, which takes another half an hour usually. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to keep myself distracted from how horny I am, because there’s nothing I can do about it until she’s at the other end of the house; the lack of privacy here is incredibly frustrating on a nonstop basis.

I’m supposed to be ready tomorrow morning by about 10am — last-minute plans to spend the day with Again, whose holiday plans fell through. Hoping to fuck that I can get some rest before then, and hoping I can take care of a few things I’d really really like to accomplish before I get some sleep. So fucking sick of being stuck here. Sick of The Rabbit‘s complete obliviousness to all the shit surrounding her, all the shit she causes, everything. it’s so horrible here. And she’s said to me, explicitly, “I never wanted you here.” Well, fuck you too, since I never wanted to be here, but hey, you’re the one who made the goddamned offer in the first place, so…

Miserable. I’ve said it plenty before, but this place is killing me. It’s a slow death, but it’s death nonetheless. I mean, within the last couple of weeks, I had a night where, for the first time in easily 20 years… I could see swallowing an entire bottle of sleeping pills as a choice that I could make. I chose not to, that night. But it was a choice I could have made, and I recognized it as such. That ought to scare me; instead it was more of a “huh. Guess I’m not in great shape. ~shrug~

I don’t know how I’m going to possibly find a home. Ever. Things have only gotten worse since I last ranted about how shitty housing options are around here, and they’re continuing to fall apart spectacularly for anyone who isn’t wealthy. It’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

Past 5 in the morning; feeling worse for the weather, it seems.

“And I was gonna write a poem about how fire is the only thing that can make a person jump out of a window, […] but depression, too, is a kind of fire… and I know nothing of either.” –Taylor Mali, “Depression Too Is a Type of Fire”

Yesterday I wanted to be dead. Not to kill myself, not to die, just… to cease existing. And yes, I could recognize that having been awake for over 24 hours straight — having lost count of exactly how many — likely helped color my view of the world, but I could also recognize that it only added intensity to what is generally sitting just under everything else, just like alcohol lowers my inhibitions but doesn’t make me do anything I wouldn’t have done while sober. A few drinks might make me do whatever it is more easily, more quickly, with less hesitation; being sleep-deprived and hungry makes me hit those lows more profoundly, more easily too.

Before falling asleep yesterday evening, I posted some depressed and depressing rant like I frequently do, I sent my therapist a text message letting her know I was “wishing hard I wasn’t alive” and that I was about to sleep, and then I got a message on Facebook from Escrow. The first message just said “hey!” And shit, I was overwhelmed, barely able to cope, and I was starting to tell her thanks for checking in but that I couldn’t really process chatting right then… but as I was doing so, she mentioned that she was checking to see that I was safe because she’d heard about a huge fire in my general overall area and she was worried about me.

Oh, right. I’d seen the “safety check” thing from Facebook when I’d picked up my phone, and I had dismissed the notification because it was more shit that I couldn’t deal with when I was already struggling to deal with everything else… but the check-in from a dear friend drove home something that I have known for a long time: an immediate, obvious threat to life gets responses. The slow quotidian slide, the mundane yet no less significant forces that are weighing me down and killing me… those are much, much harder to get help in dealing with. It’s the reason why, in the past, I might have made an obvious post about being ready to kill myself. Or why I might have called a crisis hospital and said that I believed I was a danger to myself or others. Or why I might have chosen any number of, essentially, ruses to make it seem as if there were an immediate, obvious threat to my life. Because that’s what people respond to! But, of course, the responses I’d get in those situations aren’t really all that helpful. And there’s the additional aspect of being “the girl who cried wolf,” because if I ever were at a point where I had specific plans to kill myself and enough motivation to do so, then I’d want to know that I hadn’t left behind me a trail of people too burned by my prior attention-grabbing to intervene when I really needed it.

So I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. Haven’t for years. But when things are caving in under the heaviness of life with depression, and I’m feeling alone and hurting and would love to have someone I know and trust be there for me — not because I’m about to die, but because I’m struggling in other, equally difficult ways… it seems a lot like, well,

“When I expressed my desire to kill myself, I was overwhelmed with offers from people who wanted to spend time with me. Two weeks later, though, I couldn’t get any of them to pick up the phone. It made recovery really difficult because it communicated that people only really cared when I was in crisis.” –Kitty Stryker, “So Someone You Love Is Suicidal”

The title of this post comes from the lyrics of an Erasure song, “Rock Me Gently.” The official music video is a shorter cut than the album version, which basically takes away the otherworldly sadness of synthesizers amid the shrieks of Diamanda Galás which make it such a perfect match to my mood on many occasions. The chorus, however, is simple, direct, and to the point:

“I dream you’re with me
You hold me sweetly
And rock me gently to sleep
In your arms.”

I wish I knew what that felt like again. It’s been a very long time indeed.

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